


Not for Mercy

by Esteliel



Series: Tell Night From Day [3]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Begging, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Edging, Facials, Felching, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Rimming, Spanking, Switching, Valjean's Tortured Boner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You see no wrong in kneeling before me, in kissing my feet as though you were the dog, and I the master? In that case I will have you on your knees on my terms, and will not release you until you have learned your lesson, no matter how long or how painful learning it is."</i>
</p>
<p>Javert and Valjean keep experimenting with kink. To Javert's great surprise, he learns that despite their past, tormenting Valjean need not be painful, and that sometimes, watching someone you love suffer can be pleasurable for everyone involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not for Mercy

Javert had sat down to write a letter, as had become his custom these days, penning words with quiet, cold determination – as was also more often the case than not, time had passed more quickly than he had planned for, and so it came to be that he sat in Valjean's study still, Valjean's desk covered with both newspapers and his drafts of letters. His brow was furrowed, and so engrossed was he in the condemnation of corruption for which he was listing examples with fierce precision that at first, he did not even realize that the door to the study had opened and then closed, and that he was no longer alone.

When he looked up, he found himself the recipient of an inscrutable look. Instinct made him straighten; he had grown used, he realized with faint surprise once more, to feel Valjean's eyes settle on him with warmth whenever they inhabited the same room – but there was no warmth in Valjean's eyes now, just a strangely focused intensity which he could not place, so that he could only just in time keep himself from fidgeting on his chair like a schoolboy.

The thought made him halt, then frown; for once, it was not so out of place. Valjean was no schoolmaster, certainly, but today, something had made him put on his finest waistcoat: a rich brocade of burnt umber with golden embroidery, together with the cravat of umber silk that went with it. The shirt he wore beneath was not the comfortable, clean but well-worn linen he preferred for the days when they had no guests to entertain but only each other for company; instead, the garment seemed to be unworn, the cloth pristine and firmly starched. Javert swallowed as his eyes hesitated for a moment on the expanse of muscle that stretched beneath the fine fabric. Valjean was all relaxed, confident strength, and at last suspicion roused Javert from his admiration, for there was no occasion he could recall for Valjean to dress up in such a manner today. He had not seen him wear that waistcoat before – he remembered, his frown deepening, that Cosette had mentioned a similar garment once, during one of those wretched evenings he could not always escape. Was this what Valjean had been forced to wear to her wedding? If that was the case, what an earth could have arisen to make it necessary for Valjean to put on his finest garments? Unless... 

“Have I forgotten an invitation?” He put down his pen with the first stirrings of horror and guilt alike. Valjean shook his head very slightly, and stepped closer, his eyes trailing over the sheets of paper spread across the desk.

“I am surprised, Inspector,” he said, and that alone was enough for Javert to look up sharply, his throat suddenly dry, ”to find you at my desk.”

Javert swallowed, out of his depth at this sudden change in – in whatever this thing was they had created between themselves. Heat rose to his face; he raised a hand to his throat as if to nervously tighten his cravat, but then realized that he was still in his shirtsleeves, that the urge to pen this letter had overcome him before he had even dressed in proper attire for the day. His cheeks heated further; he felt strangely vulnerable and improper at once, when Valjean had seen him in worse states – certainly Valjean had seen him at his most improper too many times to keep count by now. 

He did not quite know how to react, and so he remained speechless for a long moment, embarrassed by the way his face had heated, embarrassed by how he could feel Valjean's gaze linger at the hollow of his throat, made helpless by how something that had become long habit could now cause such fierce shame and the first stirrings of quite a different heat in his stomach.

Valjean stepped closer, then reached out to rest one hand on the desk, a frown creasing his brow as if he were upset by the disorder Javert had caused in his study. Javert felt the heat in his face rise even further, reprimanded himself for such an unbecoming reaction. He was no schoolboy, to fall for something that could be no more than a jest, a charade to – no. Valjean would never mock. But to tease... Certainly, lovers teased, did they not? His thoughts grappled helplessly for an image of Cosette with the Baron Pontmercy, the only memory he had of the folly of love, and then Valjean's smile widened a little, sharpened – oh Lord, when was the last time Valjean had looked at him like that? Never, never since they had met again in Paris – and he parted his lips, exhaled a shuddering breath, his eyes helplessly raised to the man who leaned forward with confidence.

“I do appreciate your work, Inspector,” Valjean now said, and then brushed the letters Javert had penned aside with a studied carelessness, although Javert realized with relief that he took care not to smudge the ink or crease the paper. “At the same time, I fear your single-mindedness has made you thoughtless. You have made a mess of my desk. Indeed, I think it is hardly appropriate for the inspector to take over my office, without so much as asking for my leave.”

Javert moistened his lips; instead of an answer, all he managed was a soft, helpless sound that only served to increase his embarrassment. Was Valjean truly indulging the embarrassing display he had made of himself the last time? Was he encouraging this evil within him? Or was this perhaps a reprimand couched in playfulness to make it hurt less, but nevertheless a reprimand in truth? He had taken over Valjean's study, after all; he had not meant to take– 

But now Valjean's face schooled itself into sternness, and he gestured for Javert to rise, and Javert, horrified at how very, very much he wanted to obey and have this weakness of his taken advantage of, stood, already made uncomfortable by how arousal made him harden and press with aching insistence against his trousers.

“Well, Inspector? Have you not even an apology for me?”

Valjean's voice was stern, but when Javert stared at him, helpless and mesmerized, the skin around his eyes crinkled a little, a corner of his mouth lifted, and Javert felt his heartbeat speed up when he realized that Valjean was indeed not serious.

He licked his lips again and swallowed, feeling faintly ridiculous – but at the same time, the mere possibility of what Valjean might choose to do to him was enough to make him breathless, and ache with an reluctant need that was quite unlike the warm ache of his hardening prick.

“Forgive me,” he said, hesitated a moment, then added, uncertain, “monsieur.” It sent another wave of warmth through his body, so that he felt ridiculous again, and yet – to have that mere possibility of Valjean indulging this part of him that had betimes dreamed of such improper encounters...

He exhaled again, then forced himself to straighten, lowered his gaze. Once more, he fell with mindless ease back into the posture that had become second nature, standing tall and straight, at attention before one he knew as his superior. 

There was a moment of silence, and then, Valjean's hand was on his shoulder, and when he spoke, Javert could hear a trace of wonder through the roar of his own blood in his ears.

"I fear that an apology does not suffice in this case, Inspector. I believe a different lesson is needed here. Please take off your trousers, Javert, and bend over my desk. I have warned you before that I will not tolerate any further displays of disobedience. As much as it pains me, it seems that this is a lesson where I cannot show leniency with you. Unless you would ask for my mercy in this?"

Javert made an embarrassing sound as he drew in a startled breath. “No, monsieur.” Already his hands were at his trousers, pushing down the offending piece of clothing, so eager that he clenched his jaw with faint disgust – but there was no escaping the heavy warmth that had spread through him at Valjean's commend, the cruel words so kindly spoken that he almost wanted to beg for more of that alone. Instead, he thought of how improper this was, of how this must look to Valjean, how ludicrous the entire business was, for he was no child to engage in games of pretending, he should not–

Valjean's hand settled on his shoulder once more with a firmness that made him shiver. He swallowed again, tried to think of a reply, but he could no longer speak, his throat too tight for words. He could barely remember how to breathe as his heartbeat fluttered in his chest, his stomach twisting and turning with both excitement and embarrassed dread, and then he found himself bent over Valjean's desk in truth. The wood was hard and unforgiving against his skin, and he closed his eyes, made a soft sound as Valjean's hand came to rest on the small of his back for a moment, spreading heavy warmth as it held him in position.

"Good, Javert." He bit his lip when Valjean's hand slowly stroked downwards, following the curve of his buttocks. He wondered if Valjean was secretly laughing at him. He ceased being able to think when Valjean's hands pressed down more firmly – there was just enough strength behind it to remind him of the fact that Valjean could hold him down without effort, if he pleased. Although Javert knew that Valjean would never do so, this small reminder was enough to make him feel his own lack of power so keenly that his body yielded to the unspoken command, relaxing against the desk with the faint awareness that he was ridiculous, while his desire for this rose to a height that was nearly unbearable. 

"Now I think we settled on a punishment appropriate for your transgression last time, Inspector?" This time, there was a slight hesitancy in Valjean's voice, though his hand remained in place. Javert closed his eyes in mortification, pressed his cheek to the desk, aware of the tremor that ran through his body at the thought that Valjean would really do this thing for him; such a ridiculous thing. What a fool he was, he thought faintly, wondering once more that Valjean could hold a man like him dear, full of a fragile, helpless gratitude at the same time that Valjean would not condemn him.

He spread his fingers slightly against the desk. Unbidden, faces rose before him – how often had he imagined a scenario like this? There was his first superior; then later Chabouillet, his patron, and yet, how terrible those visions had been! Never had there been a warmth within him that made him languid, made him ache to surrender and accept all that was given; before, any release he had gained from such visions had been hasty and filled by cold disgust, to be followed by a shame that cut straight to the bone.

This was different. There was shame – but also a tender hope, decades after he had learned not to hope for a cure for his depravity. And this shame did not cut; instead it gathered within him, hot and thick as it curled and spread within his veins, until it was almost as good as the pleasure Valjean's touch had always brought him.

He took a deep breath, then relaxed with conscious effort, gave himself over into Valjean's hands. "Monsieur," he said, another shiver of sharp arousal rolling through him, "you said you would chastise me like a schoolboy, and you are right. I deserve any reminder you deem appropriate, so I may continue to serve you better."

There was a moment of silence again, during which he feared – but then Valjean made a soft sound, half approval, half something desperate and loving, and Javert kept pressing his cheek to the cold wood, praying for something he could not even name. He only knew the need for it was unbearable, a tension that coiled through his entire body, as if a part of him would fall apart and wither should Valjean choose to forgo this dangerous game and step away.

But Valjean remained. Valjean was warm against his skin, the brush of woolen trousers against his bare legs intimidating and reassuring at once. This was all his half-remembered, shameful dreams come true, and he was so tense, the anticipation so unbearable, that a soft gasp escaped him when Valjean's hand slowly stroked his skin, his thumb pressing tightly into muscle.

"I am certain you will not disappoint me again, Inspector," Valjean said, his voice kind, so kind – too kind, Javert thought with something approaching hysteria, what if he would not – and then Valjean's hand came down on him. The sting of it was enough to make him gasp, more from shock than pain, and he trembled again, his eyes open and wide as he stared at the wall without truly seeing, his hands clenching grasping blindly, wondering once more with sudden fear what Valjean must think of him, to see him so. Again Valjean's hand rose and fell, and this time it was worse, this time it was no gasp but a moan that escaped, and he would have felt shame for that alone if he had not felt Valjean shift behind him, heard his voice strangely tight and breathless as he spoke.

“This... _is_ what you deserve, Javert?” he asked, and Javert turned his face against his arm, moaned again, helpless, into his sleeve, his cock aching more fiercely at the thought that Valjean would make him beg for it, his heart shuddering in his breast at the thought that Valjean felt the need to ask again, Valjean who would not hurt anyone, and who would nevertheless indulge his shame in such a laughable way.

“Yes, monsieur,” he forced out, only barely able to keep from rubbing himself against the hard wood like an animal. “I know I deserve this.”

Again Valjean's hand rose and fell, and he gasped at the heat of the impact, imagined Valjean holding him down, clad in his finest waistcoat and cravat while he was spread out across his desk in nothing but his worn shirt. Another undignified noise escaped him at that, a whine from high in his throat as Valjean's palms cupped his aching buttocks for a moment, and he pushed up into his touch with something he knew could not be seen as anything but eagerness. At that motion, Valjean froze again, and then, he reached out for Javert's hands, pulled them away with such gentle cruelty that Javert panted, wide-eyed, unable to hide his flushed face now as Valjean gathered his wrists in one hand to hold them together at the small of his back. Despite Valjean's strength, there was no force in the way the fingers curled around his wrists – but it did not matter to Javert, who trembled at the gesture, another moan spilling from his lips, and when Valjean's hand connected with his skin again, and again, he shifted beneath him, his cock straining against the hard wood until he could not say what was more painful, the sting from the slaps or the hot, unfulfilled need within him. It was unbearable, it was too much; eyes wide and unseeing, he shivered, mortified at the sounds that escaped him, his body heavy and hot as all tension seemed to drain from him to leave him instead boneless and overwhelmed.

He could hear nothing but the sound of his own harsh breathing when Valjean stopped. There was silence; there was only the sweet heaviness of every muscle in his body yielding to such a fate, and the shame that was still so heavily entwined with it. Even now, it whispered terrible things into his ear that made his breath catch in his throat – Valjean using his own handcuffs to bind him, Valjean spreading his legs apart, keeping him open, vulnerable; Valjean fucking him like this–

Another whine escaped, he panted harshly – was he a child, to whimper so? Had he truly no more control than this? – and then there was the gentlest touch, a finger dragged down the aching length of his prick ever so lightly, as if Valjean needed to reassure himself that Javert truly felt pleasure at what he had done to him.

At that thought, Javert sobered. The haze of terrible, shameful need receded somewhat, so that he managed to straighten and turn to face Valjean. There was a thoughtful look on his face – but also, a warmth in his eyes, and that was enough for now, he thought with tired relief. 

“Thank you,” Javert said, and he could not have said whether he was still pretending, or whether this was indeed between _them_ now. Maybe it was both. In his fantasies, he had always been grateful for deserved discipline. In his fantasies, now would be the time to sink to his knees, to press his lips to Valjean's groin, to offer his mouth, and accept all he was given with humble gratitude. Now, he was grateful still – not so much for the ache, the uncomfortable heat of reddened skin, but for the fact that Valjean did not mock, although Javert was still half-disgusted by his own ridiculousness. But Valjean did not laugh; Valjean had accepted his depravity, and played along, and so Javert reluctantly allowed himself to sink into that acceptance, to pretend, if only for a moment, that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

Valjean raised a hand and rested it against his chest, where his heart was still racing. His voice was bemused, but there was wonder too when he spoke. “I had not thought it would be like this. You _squirmed_ , Javert, it was – you should have seen yourself! I do not think I ever saw you–”

“Looking so ridiculous?”

Valjean laughed very softly and shook his head. “So abandoned. Is that what it takes to make you stop doubting?”

Javert felt himself flushing again and looked away. “Yes, well,” he said, shifting, barely able to suppress a gasp at the way the worn linen of his shirt brushed across the head of his cock. “Had you tried it then, it would not have changed anything.” Valjean was silent; he chided himself, pressing his lips together in annoyance at having brought up that topic. Neither of them needed to think of the past. But then, of course, his own depravity had focused on that for so long...

“Come, Javert. Sit.” Valjean's hand was on his shoulder, and although Javert could still not understand how there could be understanding for him, he followed regardless, grateful that Valjean did not seem inclined to judge him, although he would have more right than any other. 

“That is – can you sit? Ah.” Valjean flushed, trying another hesitant smile when Javert sat down, and Javert opened his mouth only to close it again in mortification, unable to think of a reply to that question. Valjean's smile wavered, but then his gaze slid lower, and Javert's eyes followed, until they came to rest on where his cock even now visibly tented the shirt. Almost, another groan escaped him at that; he bit his lip just in time, curled his hands, wondered if he dared to ask for a touch, or if Valjean might even be inclined to torment him further... That thought alone sent a new heat through his veins, but then Valjean slowly went down onto his knees – still so graceful for a man of his age, and yet, a vague unease filled Javert at the gesture. It was not right that a man his age should kneel on the hard floor; it was not right that _this_ man should–

All thought fled when Valjean took hold of his shirttails to lift them with something approaching reverence, that white-haired head bending over his lap. Javert exhaled with shock at the open-mouthed kiss to the tip of his prick, wet heat brushed against him until his hips arched forward, half-yearning to sheathe himself in the sinful heat of Valjean's mouth, half terrified still to see Valjean debase himself so.

“Valjean,” he said, begged, breathless and uncertain, and Valjean looked up at him with a small smile, nothing but serenity in his eyes, even as his lips parted and Javert watched the glistening, flushed head of his cock slide slowly into his mouth, that sweet mouth that would utter prayers, or read the bible to him, or–

He moaned when Valjean's tongue curled around the head of his cock, hot and insistent. With another muffled sound of agonized pleasure he pushed forward, felt himself slide across the sinful softness of Valjean's tongue, trembling as much with the ecstasy of it than with distant horror. He should not do this to Valjean, he thought again, helpless, heat rising until he felt he could not breathe; he should not see Valjean on his knees; he should not see this man subjugated...

Valjean released him; he could see his own fluids glistening on Valjean's lower lip, swallowed with sudden, sharp uncertainty – but then Valjean's tongue swiped across his lip, and Javert wanted to moan again at the sight. A strangled sound escaped him; Valjean reached out to press his thigh, smoothing his hand up and down as if to reassure him. 

“Come now, Inspector,” he said, and this time it was surely a jest, this time there was laughter in his eyes, and not even the pretense of keeping his voice quietly commanding, to go with the use of his title, “certainly you shall not fail to perform your duty now? Need I command this as well?” His eyes were on Javert's face, who was still flushed, helpless with pleasure and discomfort and could not take his eyes away from Valjean's soft, red lips. Valjean's hands took hold of him then. Carefully, he smoothed back the foreskin, his breath hot against the exposed, sensitive head of his prick. Javert watched with horrified fascination as another bead of fluid welled up, as Valjean closed his eyes, that venerable, white head bowed as his lips parted in readiness to once more suck his cock into his mouth. At the sight, he had to bite back a sob; he reached out to grab Valjean's shoulder, fingers clawing at the fine shirt as his spend erupted from his prick and he watched with horror and tormented pleasure as long streaks of white splashed over Valjean's face, dripping down his cheeks, his mouth, staining the soft, white hair.

He could not speak when he was done. He wanted to apologize, to explain, but horror had closed his throat. All he could do was watch when Valjean raised his face. Still there was nothing but calmness in his eyes, so that Javert reached out at last with a choked sound that was not the plea for forgiveness he knew he owed Valjean. His trembling fingers brushed Valjean's cheek; he tried to wipe away his spend, felt it wet and still warm against his fingertips. His heart was still racing in his chest as he leaned back against the chair in exhaustion, disgust washing over him. All strength was gone, and as he rubbed his fingers against each other, his come sticky and warm like blood, Valjean bent his head again, licked at where his softening cock had spent itself in a final, small puddle on his thigh at which Valjean now mouthed to clean him with quiet patience, while Javert still trembled with speechless disbelief.

“Valjean,” he said at last, his voice shaking, and then found that he could not continue when Valjean continued to press kisses to his thigh, his lips warm and soft against his skin. Very slowly, Valjean kissed a line down to his knee, lingering every now and then to brush his lips against the thin, wiry hair, or to trace a line with his tongue with quiet curiosity where Javert knew that scuffles with thieves had left small scars. 

Javert watched with quiet confusion. He still ached to reach out and clean Valjean's face from his sin – Valjean deserved an apology; it should be him on his knees, not Valjean! And yet, somewhere deep within him, a strange heat blossomed at the sight of his seed on Valjean's skin, a strange, animal satisfaction that brought with it a deeper horror. He had no right to mark Valjean so; the mere thought should send him to his knees, to plead for forgiveness from this saint- and yet, instead it was Valjean who bowed his head, who kept exploring leisurely, his warm mouth breathing kiss after kiss down his legs until his lips nuzzled against the arch of his foot, and the sound that escaped Javert was very nearly a sob now, for with every part of his new soul he knew that this was wrong. Still he found he could not move, could not even speak when Valjean pressed kisses to his foot, the soft, warm lips brushing the tenderest caresses against his skin before Valjean turned towards his other foot to breathe adoration and calm, gentle love onto him in the same way. Javert looked down; Javert watched that aged, white-haired head bowed to kiss his feet, humbling himself, and at last, it was more than he could take, and he gripped Valjean's shoulders to pull him up, half-sobbing, pleading with a despair he had not felt since that night on the parapet.

"Do not punish me like this. Anything, but not this, I beg you. I cannot bear it!"

Valjean's hand came up slowly; he cupped Javert's cheek lightly, although there was a frown on his face. "It is no punishment, Javert. Why would you think so?"

Javert looked at him, then closed his eyes in torment for a moment, unable to bear that look of quiet warmth when his own spend still gleamed obscenely on Valjean's cheeks and brow. "What man am I that I would do such a thing to you?" The words were a groan, then he clenched his jaw, furious, unable to find a way to express his helpless anger. His hands clenched to fists; he yearned to get up, to pace, but instead he remained in the chair, trembling with tension. "You... _you_ , kissing my feet! Like..." He lacked the words to express his tormented horror at the mere idea, and shook his head instead, his eyes wild and pleading for understanding, and a forgiveness he knew he did not deserve. He leaned forward at last, placed his large hands on Valjean's shoulders, panting as the turmoil within him tightened around his chest until he could not breathe.

"If this is the price you would have me pay for my depravity, I beg you, I will not ask it again of you! It was a cruel thing to do to you, a selfish thing! To ask you of all men to play the brute..."

Valjean frowned, although he shook his head very gently at Javert's words, and took one of his hands from his shoulder to press a kiss to it as well. "You truly think of it as punishment? Javert, I only expressed my love for you. I am no saint. To kneel before you – it is no price, no punishment for you! Truly, it is no great thing to kiss your feet. Every part of you is worthy of love. And to learn humility, that is a lesson from God, certainly."

Javert bit back a laugh of both horror and despair. “Valjean, you – no. No!” he said again, shook his head, pulled his hand away. Again he thought of how he had willingly put himself over the desk, so eager to have a self-serving dream fulfilled that he had not even had a single thought to spare for Valjean's well-being. After all, he had known all along that Valjean had no share in his depravity. 

“So eager was I to wallow in my sin that I would drag you down into the fire with me,” he said and stood, forcing the words out from clenched teeth. “Of course you would indulge me! And now I know how you must have felt. Well! I am ashamed now, and rightly so. To do such a thing to you, to force you into such a position, to tell you that I want you, _you_ , to hurt me...” Again he laughed and thrust a hand into his hair, but then turned sharply to face Valjean again, who watched him without speaking.

“Ah. See what I have done to you,” he said, but now the anger was gone, and there was only sadness left. Very carefully, he wiped at the strings of his seed that still glistened on Valjean's face, while Valjean watched impassively.

“Valjean,” he said again, his voice very soft now, close to breaking. “Do not... do not look at me like this. As if you deserve such treatment. Do not let me...”

His voice faltered when Valjean caught his hand. He could not breathe; his fingers were still stained with the thick fluids of his release, and now Valjean drew his thumb into his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as he slowly, calmly, sucked Javert's spend from them while Javert stood frozen. He could not take his eyes from him; there was a slight flush now that heated Valjean's cheeks, but still there was nothing but quiet enjoyment on his face as he moved from one finger to the next to clean them, lingering over every digit, his tongue curling with sensuous heat along his skin.

“I wish you would love yourself better,” Valjean said quietly when he finished at last. Javert barely kept from recoiling, his hand still limp and useless in Valjean's grasp, who pressed a final kiss to his palm with a faint smile.

“It is not...” Javert fell silent, not quite certain how to end the sentence. After a moment, he shook his head in impatience. He could not think; but then, that was Valjean's fault, who had rendered him so! “That is of no importance! Even were I the most deserving of men to walk the earth, can you not see that you must not ever kneel; that _you_ must not ever kiss my feet? To crouch at my feet like a dog; ah, Valjean, is that what you think you are?”

Valjean released his hand at last, one corner of his mouth still lifted in a small smile, though to Javert, there seemed to be a sudden sadness in it. With sudden remorse, he wondered when Valjean had last allowed himself true joy.

Valjean's arms wound around him then, and if Javert resisted a little when Valjean drew him close, then only because he was still horrified by what he had been forced to witness – Valjean nearly cowering before him, Valjean humble, that noble head bent. No. No, such a thing was not right, he told himself again, ignoring the heat that had flared up at the view of his come-stained fingers between those soft lips.

“I am but a man, Javert, like you.” Valjean spoke the words quietly, but Javert found it suddenly difficult to concentrate on his words when he realized with sudden shock that Valjean was impossibly aroused. Despite everything, Valjean's own cock was pressing hot and hard against his thigh, stretching beneath his trousers with beautiful need. 

“If it does not demean you to kneel before me, or to bend over a desk and ask for chastisement – then how can this be abasement?” His brow creased, although he did not look away, and Javert, still trapped by his embrace, found he had no answer.

“It pains me, to see you so,” he said at last, and Valjean's small smile faltered. “Did it pain you to see me– ah, I do not need to ask. Of course it pained you to cause me pain. I know well that I have been selfish, Valjean.”

Valjean exhaled slowly; almost, it was a sigh of frustration. “You wanted that. You told me you had imagined it for a long time. I wish you would cease to see me as a saint, Javert – my thoughts have not been very chaste of late.” As if to underline the point he was making, he pressed against Javert's thigh; new heat rose to Javert's face at the thick, insistent shape that even now, he yearned to uncover, to hold in his hands with reverence. “And that is no fault of yours. If you are a sinner, then so am I. But first and foremost, I am a man like you. It does not demean me to love you.”

Javert swallowed thickly. He found he had no answer for that. 

“You must stop giving in to me.” It was almost a plea when the words escaped him at last, quiet and lost, and Valjean's chest was broad and strong against him, Valjean's hair soft against his cheek, so that he wanted to slide his hands into the white curls, feel the silk with fingers that had never been allowed to cherish something so precious before. Valjean's head rested against his shoulders, his prick still hot and hard between them – but then, Javert thought, his heartbeat speeding up further, Valjean had always been good at denying himself. Valjean, who was no man like him, as much as he claimed it – who called himself a sinner when his was the only light Javert had seen in the darkness where his conscience had abided for so long.

His hand slid between their bodies, worked open Valjean's trousers with sudden decisiveness. At his touch, color rose to Valjean's cheek, his breathing sped up slightly, but that was the only reaction he allowed himself.

Freed from his trousers, Valjean's prick pressed insistently against his palm. He felt massive, so thick that Javert could never resist the desire to curl his fingers around him for that simple pleasure of holding the full girth of him. The familiar weight and heat sent a stab of arousal through him; Valjean's breath brushed against his neck, a slight tremor ran through his body, but that was all the reaction Javert's touch could coax from him. Slowly, Javert tightened his fingers, squeezed ever so gently. After a moment had passed, his fingers unfurled again, only for his palm to flatten and press against Valjean's cock, soaking up his heat. He kept it there for a long, long moment until Valjean's breath hitched and he pressed closer. Javert's mouth relaxed into a reluctant almost-smile; if it was a fiercer expression than usual, Valjean did not seem to care, who still remained motionless, the faintest tremor running through him now, as if he was fighting the need to rub himself against the large, warm palm that covered him.

“ _This_ is what you deserve,” Javert said at last, muttered it through clenched teeth, dragged his fingertips up that tempting cock to tease around the head of it. There was slickness there, and he rubbed it against the sensitive flesh, pressed down just a little harder until Valjean's eyes were dark and wide and he bit his lips. “This. Do you hear me?” Valjean shuddered, though he could not tell whether it was in reaction to his words or to the fingertip that mercilessly teased the small hole, forcing more of the slickness to come forth until his fingertips were wet and sticky with it, gliding easily over the heated skin of the crown. 

Valjean did not talk; Valjean did not even ask for more when he slid his hand downward again, not truly stroking him, his fingers tightening just enough to enjoy that obscene size. “Speak, Valjean. Tell me you know this.”

Valjean made a soft sound and shuddered again; Javert once more unfurled his fingers, as if to punish him with the loss of his grip, suddenly breathless at the way another tremor ran through Valjean's body. He did not move forward to press himself against his hand, but all the same, it seemed to Javert that he would not be able to bear much more of his teasing touch. And that thought was good too, he noted with surprise when his lips were already covering Valjean's, when his tongue slid into his mouth, tasted the heat of him, the traces of his spend that lingered there. He nipped at Valjean's bottom lip with his teeth, his own breathing as labored as Valjean's all of a sudden. This was how much Valjean trusted him. This was how much Valjean would give him, even after he had given him that great, unspeakable gift of indulging fantasies he had not dared admit even to himself for so long.

Valjean deserved every reward. Valjean deserved all of his love, as pitiful and new a thing as it was. Yes – and Valjean deserved all the pleasure a man like him could give.

He stifled a soft sound of surprised, overwhelmed need against Valjean's mouth, then sucked at the corner of his lip, where a small fleck of his drying seed had remained. What a terrible thing that had been to do. And yet, Valjean had borne that, too, had borne it easily – born it with eagerness, even?

He slid a hand into Valjean's hair again, tugged on it until Valjean raised his head, met his eyes. “Do not come,” he said, breathless now from that memory alone. Valjean on his knees, calm and still, his lips still slightly parted, expecting his cock – not protesting, not even moving to wipe off his spend in disgust when Javert could not control himself anymore, marking him like an animal would...

He thought an embarrassing, high whine had escaped him at that damning memory, but instead it was Valjean who had made that sound, and Valjean who was trembling slightly, beautifully hard and needy in his hand; Valjean the saint, who would allow him even this. “Do not come,” he said again, too far gone to feel guilt for his enjoyment of the way Valjean's eyes slid shut with tormented obedience. “Do not touch yourself. Not until I tell you.”

Valjean's breath escaped in little pants, hot huffs of air that teased against his lips, tempting him to bite at Valjean's mouth again, torment him with pleasure until Valjean would give him what he had asked him for. But there was another thing that burned hot and hard within him now, something almost familiar, not the honey-sweet languor of abandoning himself to Valjean's mercy, but the molten iron of arousal twined with power over this man he knew to be worthier than any other. It should have frightened him; he told himself that again as he took a step back to enjoy the way Valjean's cock jutted out, unbearably hard; the way Valjean's hands clenched by his side, desperate and helpless and yet obeying his sudden whim so easily. 

It should have disgusted him. It was not right. He knew it was not right, not with Valjean. But he could taste the heat of Valjean's mouth still, taste the coppery tang of a more cruel need yet within him, and this time, it was too good, and he needed too much to think, and he wrapped the tattered remains of that old pride around him like an ill-fitting coat as he walked from the room, trembling within at his own daring to take this thing that Valjean had offered so sweetly.

#

Whatever it was a devil had whispered into his ear earlier that day, Javert soon came to regret listening to that voice, for it had turned the day into as much of a torment for him as he had intended it to be for Valjean. In fact, Valjean once more seemed to bear his torment with effortless ease, accepted it with a flush and a small smile, and the only sign that showed what had passed between them was that Valjean would not meet his eyes when they would bump into each other when they sat down together for lunch, or lingered before the shelves where Valjean kept his books.

With something almost approaching despair, Javert decided that Valjean made tormenting him too easy, that in truth, this had to be worse for him than what he had asked of Valjean, for now he could not take his thoughts off it; now his eyes would stray unbidden towards Valjean's groin when Valjean walked past him with the paper, or to bring him a cup of tea, or when they sat down in the afternoon and Valjean would read him a chapter from a book he was too frazzled to even remember the author of. What he did remember was the way that Valjean's cock, impressive even when quiescent, would press against the fabric of his trousers, stretched out beneath in a way which no one with eyes to see could ignore, so that Javert licked his lips several times, forced himself to keep his hands by his side while he watched that shape with unveiled hunger while Valjean read to him. Finally, he was forced to admit defeat regardless, had to reach out and open Valjean's trousers and draw him forth, just like that, that formidable prick flushed dark red and hard enough to jut out with such forward pride he had never seen Valjean himself display. Valjean's voice faltered several times as he read, but he kept reading, and Javert, telling himself that it was not cruelty but simple curiosity, could not keep his fingers from him at last, pressed his palm to that beautiful cock once more just for the pleasure of feeling the heat, the weight of him, and to enjoy the way Valjean flushed with a pleasure bordering too close to the cruel.

Later, he would corner Valjean in the kitchen once, slip his large hand into his trousers to keep it there for a minute as if that were a common thing, as if he had no need to fear rejection or denial. He had no further reason for it than to feel Valjean still hard and needy while Valjean, flushed and breathless, smiled at him but did not talk. For long moments, they simply stood facing each other, close enough that their breath mingled though they did not kiss, Javert's eyes dark and sharp with a strange new hunger, Valjean's eyes unfocused and soft with need. Valjean's cock was smooth and hard against his palm, almost too large to comfortably fit his hand, and again Javert felt that iron-cruel desire that had taken a hold of him rear up within him, driving him onwards. He leaned forward, whispered, “Do not touch yourself. Do not come,” and only then took his hand away, shivering at the way he knew he would be obeyed, though there was no reason for it. What remained of the afternoon, he spent in a red daze of longing and need whenever he thought of the way Valjean's cock never seemed able to fully soften, stretching half-hard beneath pliant wool as if to tempt him to think of further ways to make Valjean flush with pleasure.

Night could not come soon enough. When it did, when he finally found himself in bed with Valjean, their shirts stripped from their bodies with impatience on his part, a slight hesitancy on Valjean's part that was new, and sweet, he pushed Valjean to his side, put his mouth to his shoulder to suck at his skin, allowed his hard cock to slide along the cleft of Valjean's arse with great relief. At last, he thought, at last, muffled a moan against Valjean's skin while Valjean himself made a small, wordless sound. Javert slid his lips upward to his throat; he lingered there, breathed in the clean scent of his skin, nosed at the spare droplets of cold water that still clung to a few strands of hair behind his ears.

“What was that? I did not understand. Speak up if there is something you have to tell me.” He could hear Valjean swallow, see his throat move; in the light of the single candle, his lips were flushed a tempting red, as if he had bitten them. This thing was still within him, a heavy heat like molten iron pulsing in his veins, and it made him breathless, made it easy to forget for a moment who they were, and who they had been. It was so easy to take what Valjean offered him, too easy; and maybe he should resist. But Valjean bit his lip again, tilted his head back against his own so that his throat was bared to his lips and teeth; Valjean's breathing was so heavy already that Javert slid a hand up his chest, burying his fingers in the wiry, white curls while Valjean's chest rose and fell with every shuddering breath he took. He kept his hand there, felt the speed of Valjean's heartbeat, waited – he could not even say whether he wanted Valjean to answer or not. It was intoxication, this thing Valjean had given him – he could not put a name to it, except perhaps trust, but that was all wrong. He did not deserve trust; he, who was so undeserving, could not possibly take what he was offered and still ask for more, for so much more!

And yet, now he needed more. Valjean's silence was answer enough. It was the invitation he needed to reach for the oil and pour some of it into his suddenly trembling hand, to slick it impatiently over himself and then press himself to Valjean's broad back, so warm and already damp with sweat as he slowly guided his oil-slick cock into him, one hand on a powerful thigh to hold him open while the muscles tensed beneath his fingers and another sound of need was forced from Valjean's lips.

“No,” he said, his breath coming out in harsh pants against Valjean's scarred shoulder. “No, no, don't move, just take this, take me, feel me, Valjean...” He moaned himself once he was fully inside, overcome by the heat, by the sensation of that powerful body so tense and yet so still. He could feel the desperation in how Valjean struggled for obedience, could feel it in the small shudders that rolled through those muscles that moved and shifted beneath his lips, the harsh breathing that would turn into pleas for him all too soon.

“Tell me,” he said and closed his eyes, and now it was almost despair, because this was too much, too much even for him. Valjean had ripped all control from him months ago, and how was he supposed to regain it now when he was too overcome even to take what Valjean freely offered... “Tell me you deserve it! Tell me and you can have it!”

The oil made it easy to slide into him, and he thrust with lazy, slow movements at first, then growing faster with despairing need, his thumb pressing hard into the coiled muscle of Valjean's shoulder as he grazed his teeth along his nape. The sound Valjean made was almost a sob, and Javert thrust again, angled just there. Valjean turned his head away from him into the pillow, his fingers clenching around the sheet he had pulled up, every gasp for breath now almost a whimper. But still he did not speak, still he did not say the words Javert needed to hear, and now at last Javert admitted to himself that he was glad of it, that he did not want to let go of this thing Valjean had given him, that he wanted to keep it in his hand, in his heart, touch it and explore it and see how very far Valjean could yield, how very much Valjean was willing to give him.

His pleasure spilled from him as a broken moan against Valjean's shoulder as he found release inside him; panting, he pressed himself closer, breaking his rhythm with stuttering, quick jerks of his hips. Valjean was tense, so tense, so tight around him; the strong muscles of his thigh trembled with frustrated effort as Javert kept holding him open and exposed and beautifully unfulfilled. At last, Javert slipped out of him, sated and pleased in a way he had never quite experienced before, so that the intensity of his contentment almost frightened him. Certainly this was true selfishness: to feel pleased by the knowledge that his spend was trickling down Valjean's thigh, thick and warm, while Valjean was struggling so hard to obey his whim, to keep himself from release just to please his own cruel caprices?

He released Valjean's leg at last, but only to raise himself, to push Valjean to his back with a smile that felt terrifyingly familiar – that old smile reserved for when the chase came to a close, when some ruffian had been driven into a corner, when escape was impossible and he knew it was a matter of minutes until he would make his arrest. There was still that thought in the back of his mind that he had no right to look at Valjean like this, that Valjean should never be on his knees before him, that Valjean should never–

And then Valjean moved to his back, looked up at him from eyes that were wide and dark and lips that were bruised from his own teeth, and unbidden, he pulled up his legs, spread them wide apart so that it was only natural for Javert to settle there, to spread those thighs even wider with his hands for the pleasure of feeling the strong muscles tremble with effort.

“Please,” Valjean said, panting as he looked up at him. “Please, Javert...” His hands were still clenched around the sheets, and Javert smiled and smoothed his hands down Valjean's thighs, allowed his mouth to follow, to taste and nip and lick at the sweat-damp skin until his cheek brushed Valjean's balls. Valjean fell silent and froze, another soft, trembling sob escaping at last when Javert turned his head to allow his hot breath to ghost against the large, straining cock that curved against Valjean's stomach. His skin glistened with the wetness that continued to seep from the small slit, and he slowly moved upwards, allowed his hot breath to wash against Valjean's prick until he had reached the large, flushed head. He was so close that all he needed to do was part his lips to lick at it; instead, he licked at the fluids that Valjean kept smearing over himself with every jerk of his tormented cock, so that another choked moan escaped Valjean. 

“Do not come,” he said again, gave Valjean another small smile when that caused the large prick to jerk against his cheek, another bead of sticky liquid dripping onto Valjean's stomach which he lapped up. Almost by accident, the side of his tongue brushed against the wet head of Valjean's cock, and the sound Valjean made was one of beautiful torment. Javert smiled and moved back again to look down at Valjean, saw him breathless and beautiful. The strong body spread out beneath him gleamed with sweat; every muscle, every tendon trembling with tension – and all of that formidable power was contained and made helpless by the words he had spoken, that one, short command that should not hold such power. And yet, it did.

He smoothed his hands down the strong thighs, pushed them back towards Valjean's chest while holding them parted, marveling once more at the way Valjean would expose himself for him, though his face was flushed with hot embarrassment. Next, Javert's lips followed the path of his fingers as his mouth traveled downward. Again his cheek brushed Valjean's balls, and this time, Valjean arched up, a strangled moan escaping him when Javert's whiskers rubbed against the sensitive skin. For a moment, Javert paused there, smiling as he nipped at the tender skin of the inner thigh – another soft sound at that, Valjean's voice thick when he finally spoke up. “Javert, Javert... please!”

Javert breathed quiet laughter against Valjean's skin, then slowly, neatly, lapped up a trail of his spend where it had run down Valjean's thigh, followed the path, as neat and precise in this as in all things, until he swiped his tongue around the hole that was still slick with the oil and his own release. Another sob broke free from Valjean's throat, a wordless plea, but not the words Javert had been waiting for, and so he licked at him again, found him still stretched enough that he could lick into him, press his tongue against the quivering muscle coated with his own still-warm seed. It earned him a broken moan from Valjean, a hand releasing the sheets at last to blindly reach for him, and he allowed Valjean to bury his hand in his hair, rewarded him with another slow, slow swipe of his tongue around the stretched hole until he pushed inside again to lick his own spend out of him. His tongue explored deep into that tender, pink place, soothed the sore muscle, sucked more of his own taste from him with wet, obscene sounds until Valjean's thighs began to tremble from the tension of staving off his release, and Javert moved back with a warm huff of regret against his glistening hole, lapping at a last string of his own saliva and come.

“Good,” he said now, his voice hoarse as he looked at Valjean's swollen cock with stunned disbelief. It was flushed such a lewd, angry red that he could barely imagine how Valjean must feel after an entire day of torment, and yet, somehow, the sight did not move him to pity, but instead fanned the fires within him anew. Simply the sight of Valjean's need made something within him tremble – those eyes tightly closed, the broad chest heaving, beads of sweat glistening amidst the curls of white hair. The hand that had reached out for him now fell back, resting on Valjean's stomach, and he could see the trembling of fingers that yearned to touch. And still, Valjean denied himself. Still Valjean suffered through such pleasure and need that it had made him beg – but not admit the one thing Javert needed to hear.

“Were I a kind man I would show you mercy now,” he said and sat up, breathless himself now, and eager to remove himself from the temptation of Valjean's beautiful torment. “But do you deserve mercy, Valjean?”

There was no answer, only fast, heavy breathing. The fire within him cooled into something gentler as he watched Valjean for a long moment, and he nodded slowly to himself before he pulled up the blanket to cover Valjean. When he joined him, he could feel the tension still remaining within those impressive muscles. The smile he pressed to Valjean's shoulder was tender – if there was a sadness in it as well, then at least it was hidden from Valjean, and as if to reassure himself he slid an arm around him, awed once more by the way every muscle was tense with a need that had to be nearly unbearable by now. He slid his hand downward, covering the swollen prick with his large hand. Valjean made another sound at that, something soft and despairing from deep within his throat; another shudder ran through him, but Javert did not move, did not wrap his fingers around him or stroke him. He simply kept his hand resting there, warm and heavy, a reminder for both of them. “Sleep,” he said at last when Valjean still held himself tense. “Sleep, like this, since you do not deserve pleasure. Maybe tomorrow you will change your mind, but tonight, I want you to sleep like this.”

He could hear Valjean swallow, but he did not shift away, did not even try to press himself against his hand, although his words alone had been enough to make Valjean's cock jerk against his palm in reflex. Valjean did not speak, not even to protest, and although a part of Javert was saddened by this, the part that even now felt a strange, breathless excitement at feeling Valjean hot and hard at his command wondered for a moment how long this game could last – how long _could_ a man be driven insane in such a way?

#

Three times he woke during the night. Three times he found Valjean half-hard, teased that beautiful cock back to hardness, heard Valjean's breath hitch and speed up even in his sleep – knew himself cruel, and yet could not resist the temptation of the moans that would break free sooner or later from that lips that voiced pleasure so rarely.

Even rarer was it to have Valjean beg, and he enjoyed each and every _please_ that was torn from Valjean's throat, soft words spilled into the darkness that surrounded them until he could feel Valjean's despair in the heat of the cock that throbbed against his palm, in the way Valjean twisted next to him, first turning his face into the pillow to try and stifle his moans, then turning it to pant his desperation into Javert's hair, still so tense that every muscle in his body was quivering as Javert's long fingers played around the head of his cock. His stomach was sticky with the fluid that kept welling up from the small hole at the tip, and Javert dragged his fingers all the way down to his balls, rubbed his own slickness into his skin, teased him with just his fingertips until Valjean's pleas in the darkness turned into wordless sobs he tried to bite back and yet could not fully suppress. 

The part of Javert that believed that Valjean should never suffer again was horrified at his own actions. The part of him that had after so many years found such an indescribable delight in running his fingers through the soft hair on Valjean's chest, in feeling strong muscles move and relax against him, in being enfolded by arms that offered love and companionship to one who had willingly foregone all of these things for an entire lifetime devoted to the harsh absence of mercy: that part of him, the part that had been newly awakened by Valjean's touch, still starved, tasted a delight for the first time that was headier than all he had known, and even the stabs of his conscience could not keep him from greedily taking this power he had been offered with both hands, and exert it to give this man such a surfeit of pleasure until he had erased the silver scars and branded his own overwhelmed love and desire into his skin, until there was no part of Valjean that had not known a pleasure so intense it washed away all injustice that this beautiful, strong body had been forced to bear.

“Don't,” he said into his ear, his own voice rough with sleepy desire as his hand slid up and down Valjean's prick, his palm obscenely wet with the slickness that kept welling up, bead after bead. “Don't come.”

“Javert...” His name was a sob now, forced from Valjean's throat by his tightening grip on him. He smiled against his throat with fierce pleasure, pressed his tongue to where Valjean's pulse fluttered. 

“Yes. Yes, just like that. Just like that you will stay. For me. Now sleep.”

He trailed his lips across the broad shoulders, breathing in every little tremor that ran through Valjean's body, his own prick starting to ache with new interest at the way Valjean was coming undone. But not now. Not yet. He had driven him to pleading, which was a rare gift in itself; but, he thought, his smile widening with tentative contentment, he was a man of principles. He had told Valjean what he expected, and if Valjean himself did not think he deserved pleasure, then he would have to proceed to teach him what such denial truly meant.

#

In the morning, he woke before Valjean. Valjean's cock was mostly soft in his hand, but as he sleepily tightened his fingers to massage the thick, warm shape that was cradled perfectly in his large palm, heat soon returned. Valjean still slept, oblivious, or maybe simply exhausted, Javert thought – how much sleep had he been granted? He rose up a little to look at his face, relaxed in repose, although even now there was a slight flush, and his lips were parted as his breathing sped up. The white hair rested in graceful, soft curls against the pillow; for a moment, he was tempted to brush it out of his face, press his palm to his cheek, to kiss him, slow and lingering, and stamp his deep affection to this soul with his lips.

But that was for a different morning. Today, as much as he wanted to shower Valjean with a kindness that still seemed foreign and forever unattainable to him, today was not for mercy – not unless Valjean asked for it. And that seemed just as well. Too long Valjean had sought to give him happiness without accepting anything in return, unless Javert pressed it on him. Not today. In his own way, he was as patient as Valjean; if Valjean forced him to such actions, he would see him tormented with his touch, with his hands and his mouth for a week – but such a thing might be for a later time, he thought, and then stilled, surprised by where his thoughts were wandering.

For a moment, he allowed himself to follow that thought, flushed himself as he thought of another evening where Valjean would read to him, while he would draw out his cock and leave him lewdly exposed, as if that was his right. His eyes darkened as he imagined it: to watch and listen while Valjean grew breathless and flushed, to lean forward and tease that prick with a gentle touch every now and then, until Valjean would shift and visibly fight to not close his legs, and stumble across his words...

He almost groaned, and was forced to press a hand to his own aching prick for a moment as he shifted position. Valjean continued to sleep, though he murmured something when Javert encouraged him to roll onto his back. The strong thighs spread easily as he came to kneel in between, and there was an audible moan as he lowered his head, smoothed the foreskin back to expose the sensitive crown, and breathed hot air against it. Valjean's hips twitched towards him, and he laughed, a hoarse sound that made Valjean's prick jerk and produce another bead of thick fluid that swelled into a fat, white pearl glistening at the tip. Patiently, Javert waited until it quivered, began to slide down the flushed skin, and then lapped it up with a long, slow stroke of his tongue. Valjean's sleepy murmur turned into a gasp, his hips arched up instinctively, and Javert rested a hand on Valjean's thigh as he allowed him to slide that large cock into his mouth, sucking on the wet crown with quiet, concentrated enjoyment. It was difficult to take more of him; Valjean was generously proportioned, but he welcomed the ache of his jaw, stroked the insides of his thighs to gentle and encourage him both. Valjean was usually more considerate, would usually allow him to set the pace, but now, still half asleep and surprised into waking by pleasure, his body, for once, was not governed by his formidable will, and Javert enjoyed the uncontrolled, desperate jerks of his hips that slid Valjean's cock across his tongue, fucked his mouth in a way Valjean had never allowed himself to do when he was awake.

When he pulled back at last, choking a little, strings of his saliva and Valjean's thick, clear fluid dripped from his mouth, gleamed on Valjean's cock. He coughed, swallowed, then allowed hunger to draw him forward again, smoothed his fist down the hard cock so that only the flushed head jutted from his grip, before he cleaned the slickness away with neat licks of his tongue.

“Do you want something?” he asked at last when he looked up, smiling with a fierce pleasure to find Valjean wide-eyed, trembling, his chest heaving as he looked down at him with stunned disbelief.

“Please...” Valjean turned his head again into the pillow as he tensed in torment, his hands bunching up the sheets, then releasing them again.

“Ah. So you can say please now. Very good, Valjean.” Javert pressed a close-mouthed kiss to just beneath the ridge. “Look at you. You are beautiful like this. I love looking at your cock; so hard for me.” Valjean shuddered. “Shall I keep you like this for the week? Do you think you can bear that for me?”

Another shudder, and with it the sound of fast, tormented breathing. He trailed his fingers down Valjean's thigh again, brushed them against his balls, heavy and taut. “Do you, Valjean?” he said, and massaged them lightly while Valjean's hips rose towards him with desperate need. “I do not think you can. I can feel how difficult it is for you.”

Valjean reached down now, his hand coming to rest on Javert's arm, his fingers trembling as if he did not even trust himself with that touch when his entire body was quivering with the need for release. “Please, Javert!” he said again, squeezing his eyes shut, sweat gleaming on his brow. His voice was very soft, and when Javert tightened his hand gently, lovingly, it turned into a sob, and he trembled as if it would not take more than a single touch now for him to spend himself. “Please! Oh, please, Javert!”

Another drop of clear liquid oozed from the slit; Javert lapped at it with relish, teased the small hole with the tip of his tongue. “Do you think you deserve to come? Say it, Valjean. Tell me you deserve to come. Tell me you deserve this pleasure.”

“Javert... I deserve it, please, _please_ , I deserve it, please!” Valjean sobbed the words with mindless pleasure, and Javert sucked him back into his mouth, just in time to catch the hot spend on his tongue, waves of it flooding his mouth while Valjean trembled, one arm thrown across his face as if he could not bear for Javert to see him so undone. The next time, Javert thought, new hunger curling in his belly, warm and heavy, the next time he would tell him to keep his arms by his side, the next time he would tell him to keep his eyes open, to look at him sucking his cock as he found release, the next time–

He moaned around Valjean's prick when he realized what he was thinking. To distract himself he let Valjean slip from his mouth, cleaned him methodically, with precise licks that kept Valjean shivering. At last, when he sat up, he found that Valjean's arm was still thrown across his face, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and he moved forward, crawled on top of him to pull that offending arm away to look down into his flushed face. There were, he noticed with equal parts awe and a sudden, fearful regret, tracks of tears on his cheeks; slowly, reverently, he bent his head to kiss the salty lines away, then brushed his mouth against Valjean's.

“You deserve it,” he said against his lips. “You deserve it, Valjean.”

Slowly, he stood, ignored the way his own muscles were aching. Valjean remained silent while he cleaned them both with a damp cloth, though there was nothing but warmth and exhaustion in his eyes. At last, Javert settled down next to him once more, bent his head for a moment so that their brows touched.

“If you are no saint,” he said, speaking with his eyes closed, knowing Valjean only by the warmth of his skin and his breath, “if you want me to treat you as though you were but a man like me, then you cannot act like a saint. Then you cannot deny yourself. Think of this, Valjean, when you seek to deny yourself. You can either be the saint who takes nothing for himself, and then it will be me on my knees before you, kissing your feet, for I am no saint, and we both know that this is where I belong.” When Valjean made to protest, he leaned forward against, and this time there was an awkward despair in the brush of lips against lips, instead of his former gentleness. “No! Hear me out. I am... I was cruel. I am sorry for what I did; I have no excuse, save that you let me, and that was too intoxicating to resist, when I know I have done nothing to deserve such trust, and you give it regardless. I deserve to kneel; you raise me to kneel instead, and that is wrong and yet I took pleasure in it, and I do not know what to say save that I am sorry, and that I regard you more highly than anyone, and that it hurts this paltry thing that is my soul to see you demeaned, and yet, and yet... To see you come undone, to give you pleasure until it is neigh unbearable, and yet you do the impossible and bear it for me – you see why I cannot resist, though it makes me tremble with fear to know myself capable of such cruelty after all?”

Valjean's hand brushed his cheek, but after a moment he sat up. Javert took a deep breath and lowered his head at the sudden distance between them. He thought to reach out to reassure himself – but he had said his piece, and Valjean deserved his space, especially after such a night of prolonged torment.

“I am no saint. No matter what you say, I am no saint, Javert.” When Javert looked up, he saw that Valjean tried to smile, though his eyes remained thoughtful. “You did nothing to me. You gave me pleasure, that was all.”

“And before that, I made you cause me pain. That is unforgivable, too.”

Now the corners of Valjean's mouth lifted slightly, although he still did not reach out for Javert. 

“Ah, you call that pain? I would have thought a man in service of the police more inured to such things. Was it worse than what scuffle gave you that scar near your knee? Worse than what that drunk sailor did, the day you came home with your arm black and blue?”

“Valjean...” Javert looked away, uncomfortable. “It is not the same. You know it. It is not right to ask such a thing of you, only...”

Now Valjean laughed very softly, and Javert wished he had known to stop speaking earlier.

“Only it is what you have thought about for a long time. You said so yourself. Javert, if you worry about my soul, rest assured – I was more worried I was a disappointment to you in that fantasy of yours. I made a terrible mayor; I fear that is still true today. I did not want you to think I am mocking you, but–”

“Yes, yes,” Javert said and flushed, and covered his face with his hand to hide his embarrassment. “It was a mockery in and of itself. I am sorry. Truly, Valjean, I am sorry I crave such a thing, but I am not sorry you gave me that, it was – good God, it was foolish, I know that! And yet you will know as well that I enjoyed it, and that is the true shame, is it not?”

Valjean moved a little closer – close enough that their knees touched, and he rested a hand on Javert's thigh. “No shame. Please, Javert. If I have to smile even now, it is with affection – who can say it is foolish, when it made you writhe like that? That sight at least I very much enjoyed.”

Javert lowered his hand, color still high in his cheeks. “Yes, well. I have thought of worse things,” he said, then laughed, that terrible, soundless laugh that should make Valjean flinch away – and yet he only moved closer, so that finally, Javert could no longer resist, and raised his head. Valjean's face was flushed as well, but his eyes were warm, and once more Javert thought with a great helplessness of how he could not deny this man anything, how Valjean need but look at him, and already all the terrible things he had thought well-buried within him spilled out, to add to the burdens of this man who already carried so many.

“Worse things,” he repeated, his voice quiet. “Judge if you must. In fact, I would prefer it though I know you will not, and that makes this more painful. The first man I served under – he was an impressive man. I strove to do well; I always did. Well, you know that. Not that he knew of my depravity, but I was young, new to a uniform, and coins in my pocket, and men who followed strict rules in a world that suddenly made sense, if you but knew the law that governed it. I followed his example quite devoutly, and at times, at night, I – well. You know it.” He gestured with his hand, made a choked, embarrassed sound when Valjean's hand stroked his thigh with affection. “My patron – Chabouillet, I mentioned him, a good man but – of course, I never showed him any sign of – Well! Let us make this short; I dreamed of him taking a cane to me; not his bare hand, as you did, when I thought of it it was always a cane, and sometimes, afterwards he would, over his desk...”

He stopped, breathing heavily, could not meet Valjean's eyes, even though Valjean now reached out for his hand and pressed it gently. He clenched his teeth; after a moment, he looked up, and was not surprised to find Valjean's eyes watching him with great warmth. “You will not even laugh. I would laugh at myself then, but this is too tiring. All those things and more, I thought of you. I hated you. I denounced you. You saved me, whether you believe it or not; you claim I am a man just like you, when I have been shown that there is little goodness in me, and knowing that, knowing how much I owe you, there are moments I look at you, and I see you in that fine waistcoat, your cravat of silk, your polished boots, and you sit at your desk and write your letters, and I kneel before you, beneath your desk, your cock in my mouth while you work, and it does not even matter whether I hate you or admire you because I know that my place is to serve you, and–”

“Hush, Javert. You are upsetting yourself.” Valjean brushed his fingers over his brow; they were very cool, and only now did Javert realize that he was trembling, that there was a strange tightness in his chest, a heat behind his eyes. Humiliated, he lowered his head, tried to breathe evenly, but even so he could barely hold back whatever it was that had suddenly broken forth with such strength.

“What shames me the most, Valjean, is that I dare to say these things to your face, so that you will have to bear the burden of my fears as well. It is not right to do such a thing to you.”

Somehow, he found himself in Valjean's arms – or maybe Valjean was in his, he could not even say it as he clutched at those strong arms with despair. “But do you see that? You must see that! If you make me confess such sins, if even now your compassion tries to save me from damning myself, then I must be allowed to do the same! Then you cannot just play along in whatever dreams the darkest part of my soul spits forth. Tell me no. Tell me no at least on occasion, so that I know you can say no, you _will_ say no if I am too selfish, if my demands cause you pain. Demand a favor of me on occasion so I do not feel selfish, for every day I wonder how I can return even a small part of what you have given me.”

“You need not give me anything. Your company is a gift unlooked for, and all the more precious because of it.” Valjean's voice was quiet, but when Javert thrust his hands into his soft, white locks, he looked up as if startled. 

Javert panted, then shook his head. “No. You ask for my company, and I give it – the park, a play, I do not care. Monsieur le Baron's new gardens; very well, I will go, though I know I have no place there, but you have a place with them, and so I follow to make certain you know that. But that is not enough. Do you see that, at least?”

What warmth there had been in Valjean's eyes had slowly vanished at his words, now they were dull, and tired. “You give me your secrets, Javert,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, as though he had to force himself to speak. “It is a gift, but – one I cannot reciprocate. I have no secrets of equal worth. I want to give you happiness, if such a thing can be achieved by me. That is all I have to give.”

Javert clenched his teeth, tightened his grip on Valjean's hair with sudden passion. “Valjean, if you force me to repeat this – I swear I shall do it. If that is what it takes to be allowed to give you an equal measure of happiness, if it takes painful week after week during which I will need to torment you into admitting that you want the pleasure I would freely, _gladly_ give, then I will do that. What do I have to lose? You already know me depraved. Well then! We shall add one more sin to the list. You see no wrong in kneeling before me, in kissing my feet as though you were the dog, and I the master? In that case I will have you on your knees on my terms, and will not release you until you have learned your lesson, no matter how long or how painful learning it is. No more cowering before me; licking my hand is a pleasure you will have to beg for, and if you cannot ask for other pleasures, and accept them when they are given, good God! I will torment you for a week, and enjoy it, and tell you so every day while you toss in bed next to me, unfulfilled and needing so much and too proud to ask for such a simple thing. No more of your pride, Valjean. No more.”

Valjean's eyes were wide, his cheeks were still flushed, and the hands he had rested instinctively against Javert's chest as he was pulled close trembled. He licked his lips, opened his mouth as if to speak, then looked away for a moment, breathing heavily. “Javert,” he said at last, helpless, his voice very soft. “Javert, I...” He hesitated, his eyes still wide and stunned. “Our coffee will be cold by now,” he said at last, them fell silent, as if he were as surprised as Javert by the words that had escaped him. “I – oh. What I mean to say is, if you want me to dress up for you and pretend that – order you to –“

“At your desk,” Javert supplied helpfully, with just a touch of cruelty, when the color in Valjean's cheeks rose. 

“Yes. The desk... under it...” Valjean faltered, looked away again, but then forced himself to face Javert, a reluctant smile on his lips.

“The coffee,” he said, and stood, a little bashful when he looked down at the mess they had made of the sheets. “Javert, I will not promise anything, but whatever it is you tell yourself about your sins, I hope you know that there is none. Already, I am too happy with you; any further happiness, and I shall not know what to do with it. I am an old man, and already you are nearly more than I can bear!” Some of the light had returned to his eyes. “Though, if you are inclined to test my endurance...” He swallowed and looked away, but not before Javert could see that his color had deepened. “I am no saint, Javert, but I will suffer what I must.”

Javert laughed despite himself, that terrible, rough sound that had scared many a suspect – here, in their bedroom filled with light and rumpled sheets, it suddenly sounded no longer quite so frightful. “Suffer you shall, if you provoke me again” he said, and found himself pleased to see that this time, it was Valjean who nearly fled from their room without even a shirt to cover himself. “Suffer you shall.”


End file.
